Overrun by: Michael Fulfs, Photography
Being twelve and in the poverty ridden streets of Honduras, life is not great, but it could be worse going to school—not really something most would find normal, but school in the words of it being more of a small building holding one class. And the classes really do not last longer than noon, which is great because I can then go help my father in the fields to help him haul and harvest things for the owner. Fun. Well for fun all there really is playing marbles if you are rich enough to buy some or play war with sling shots and rocks. Eh, it could be dangerous, but being so skinny has its upside. We can hide behind the wooden pole if we stand sideways, and it’s like we disappear from some angles. Or sometimes if we could either buy a 10 cent spinning top, or make it from wood which is what it is made of, we would also play that. But playing around for kids is kind of uncommon for the most part because if we aren’t in school we are helping our parents with the jobs they do or helping Mom around the house getting the corn mill or just getting some things, small things, from the store that we need. So most of the time after school I would just go help my father with what he is doing, hauling crops and chopping them down.
Harvesting and hauling are very tedious jobs. My father doesn’t need any real help with his being very strong with an athletic look to him: dark skinned, curly hair, and brown eyes with a scar on his cheek. He makes very little pay, but it is what helps feed my 3 younger brothers and my mother. Being paid about 1 dollar a day, it really isn’t much, but is enough to survive. Walking home on the dirt and rocky road, my father asks about school. He’s holding onto a machete.
“So how was school today?”
“It was great. We talked more about countries and their capitals.”
Walking in between the tree and wooden fence lined road. Him smiling back.
“School really sounds fun. Good thing you like it.”
Kicking a small rock. “Yeah. It’s fun. Specially being around all my friends. There was a dead bird outside the building.”
“That’s good, but keep in mind that you are there to learn, not just hang out with your friends. Wonder how that bird died and got there.” Noticing my bare feet, “Good thing you don’t wear your shoes for anything else but school because they would be destroyed by now with how much you end up walking.”
“Yes, I know, Dad. I don’t want them to get messed up, so I just carry them ‘til I am right in front of the school so they won’t wear down so fast.” Looking up at him with a big smile.
We stop by a corner store to get some beans, rice, and eggs if we have enough. With a pound of rice going for thirty cents, a pound of beans for another thirty, and eggs six for forty, we have more than enough. My dad also gets a clear glass bottle full of what looks like water.
As we get home, we interrupt Mom from sewing my younger brother’s shirt that he tore while playing outside in in the woods. The house has an earthly smell, slanted and imperfect with chunks of the side missing, a surprise that it is still standing. Hell, I’m surprised the house doesn’t cave in with the hammocks being hung on it. Mom asks for the things we brought and begins to cook them. My dad heads to the hammock to relax as she gets food ready, and I go to my room that I share with my brothers to start doing my homework.
As I begin my brother, Jose, comes in and asks, “Why is dad always so tired that he doesn’t want to play?”
Putting down my pencil as I turn around to respond. ‘Well he works hard all day in the sun and those bundles really aren’t that light. They are pretty heavy.”
Settling in to his hammock. “Well why does he work so much? He should try to play with us more.”
“Well it’s the only reason we are able to eat. He has to work all day to make money to feed us and Mom.”
Now laying in the hammock with his eyes dropping. “I guess. Just wake me up when the food is ready.”
Turning back around to my desk, picking the pencil back up. “Okay.”
Thirty minutes later Mom calls out, “Come and eat.”
My brother and I race to the table because I don’t want my brother to take my portion. We get served a spoon of rice and beans. Since we had enough for eggs, I am more than delighted to show up at the table today. As my mom walks to the room next door to give the plate of food to my dad, my brother, Jesus, whispers to me with a mouth full of egg and beans, “Wish we could have eggs every day.”
Stuffing my face with the rice and beans first, “Yeah, this is great. We can finally have some eggs with our food for tonight.”
We continue to eat. After we finish, we begin to place the plates in the sink, which is more of a concrete cube with a wide hole that appears as a sink, because we only wash our dishes and clothes at the river like most families would.
Heading to our hammocks to sleep, our mother follows us to tuck in our youngest brother, Jonah, who is five. As she tucks him in, she whispers to him, “Buena noches, Amor,” and kisses him on the forehead. She then speaks to the rest of us and says, “Goodnight. Don’t be late to school.”
We all respond with a, “Yes, mama. Goodnight.”
As we get up the next morning, we grab our towel that we share and makeshift toothbrushes and a sample sized tube of toothpaste, and head to the river. A five hundred yard walk doesn’t seem that far when you have to walk 2 miles every day to school since we can’t afford the bus fare for all four of us. As we finish washing ourselves and our dirtied clothes from yesterday, we start to walk home in our underwear, the only thing we brought so that we don’t get our school clothes dirtied on our way home.
Walking home, the second youngest brother, George, bashes his toes on a rock and yells in pain. With only being a few feet from home, my mother hears this and comes outside to see what happened. As she sees George grabbing his toes, she directs her eyes towards me and asks with an angry and to-the-point tone, “What happened?”
I try explaining that he stubbed his toes on a rock, but she won’t have none of that, so she takes me inside and gets her belt and begins to whoop me because he got hurt. Since I am the oldest, I have to protect the younger ones, no matter what. I hold myself back yelling from the pain so as to not let the neighbors know what is happening because then she would just whoop me more. I take it. When she stops, “Go get ready for school or you’re going to be late.”
I responded with a quivering voice. “Si, Mama.”
Walking to school, my brother stares at me, specially. George says, “Sorry. I should not have been so loud.”
Adjusting my leather belt that is used to carry the few books I have. “It’s okay. I am the oldest. I should not let you get hurt when I’m with you.”
Afterwards it is just silent between us ‘til we get to school and forget all about the incident.
As school finishes up at twelve, we gather at the front. When we are done talking to our friends to walk home together, I am going to go drop my brothers off, then head to the fields to help my father out again.
When we get home, my mother tells me to change out of the school clothes and hang them, then head out to where my father is to help him. “Yes, Mama. I’m going.”
As I’m arriving I can see my father talking to a farmer with a cow. As I jog up to them, I overhear that my father is trying see how much the man will sell the cow. In that instant, I begin to imagine all the good things that will come when my father buys this cow. We will have milk with that. We will be able to also have some cheese to eat and drink. But also, on the other side, we could begin selling cheese and milk to people, and make money that we desperately need. As I come back to focus in reality, I hear my father say, “Will think about it tonight and get back to you tomorrow right here at the same time.”
The farmer says, “That’s fine. Alright. See you tomorrow, then.”
As our work is done at the field and we begin walking home, I tell my father, “That cow will be great. We can have milk, cheese, and even butter.”
He says, fixing his straw hat, “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? I wonder if your mom would want that cow as well.”
I pause for a second to think. “I don’t know why she wouldn’t.”
We do our regular routine of stopping by the store for groceries and then continue our walk home. When we get home, I open the door to the smell of the now common earthly material-made house. I run to Mom and begin to tell her about the cow and how great it is. My father walks in, and she looks at him confused like, “What he is talking about?” They send me off fed and ready to go to bed, and begin to talk about the situation as my father takes a sip of coffee. “Yeah, well this man is selling his dairy cow because he has to pay something off.”
Gliding her finger across the table. “How much is he asking for it?”
Putting the cup back down to rest on the wooden withered table. “He is asking for 30 dollars. He really needs to sell this cow.”
Now tapping the table with her finger. “Thirty isn’t that much, but how much do you have saved up?”
Looking at the floor ashamed. “I… I don’t have anything. I thought you had something.”
Trying to kill him with her eyes. “I’m not the one that is given any money to be saved. You waste whatever is left on liquor. How could you be so irresponsible? So many years and still nothing. Is this a joke?”
Now looking her dead in the eyes. “No, this is not. Well, we will just not get the cow.”
As I awake to do my morning routine, I think back to the dream I had of the cow last night. “It is going to be great. This cow will for sure change our lives for the better.”
I can’t wait to get out of school to go see Dad to pick the cow up. As I arrive, my father had just got there to talk to the man about the cow. As I get closer, I hear my dad saying, “No, we cannot buy the cow from you.”
The man petting the cow looks at it. “How about I sell to you for fifteen? I really need the money.”
I look at my dad, waiting for his response. “No, I can’t do that. Sorry about that.”
Now adjusting his hat. “Well then, have a job day, sir.”
Father got out early today, so we begin walking home like usual. As I look at him this anger begins to boil in me, asking myself, “How can he not be able to pay fifteen dollars after so many years? I thought he had something. How could he not have anything saved up?” My anger comes to a point where I want to just yell at the situation I am in, the world I am living because this truly is not fair, but I know that that is not going to solve anything but get me a whooping from my dad for being too loud and causing an extremely unnecessary scene. As I look over to Father, I see him looking normal—not sad, not happy but just plain-faced—looking like this is just another day and nothing has happened. His machete hangs to his side and his straw hat flaps stiffly in the wind. As we stop by the store, he doesn’t pick up eggs this time, but two more bottles of liquor instead.
When we get home, it is silent. My brother is already asleep, and Mother doesn’t say a word to my father, but tells me to go to bed. She also goes to bed, leaving my father to himself. Thinking back, I have never seen my father not miss drinking for a single day that I can remember. He wouldn’t get full blown drunk, but would get a buzz. I remember when the store didn’t have liquor he would buy hand sanitizer and water that down to get his daily alcohol in him.
As I wake up I notice there is a dead scorpion on the floor of the room. I just stare at it, spacing out. After a bit I pick it up and throw it to the dogs outside.
Once at school, I get this very nervous feeling and a chill goes down my spine. I think nothing of it, for I am going to go see my dad afterwards anyways. Beginning my route to where he works, my mother tells me to take him some food, which is odd because she usually never would do that, but I suppose he is not going to be able to come back in time for dinner, so I listen.
As I get there, I see my dad hacking at the sugarcanes. I yell for him to notice me and that I brought him some food.
He says, “Go home. It’s not much today, but I am going to have to stay late to help the owner with other things and I don’t want you out after dark.”
As I give him his food, I begin to walk a few paces away. “Yes, Dad,” and I begin to walk home in the middle of the day with the sun blasting me. My father, knowing the sun is brutal, calls me back and gives me his straw hat so I have some type of shade.
Getting home, I tell Mom that Dad told me to just go home and, that he is going to be late. We eat and go to bed. Wake up on Saturday, so no school, and I go and ask Mom where Dad is and she says, “He didn’t come back yesterday. Maybe he stayed at the owner house to sleep since it was so late.”
Myself, feeling uneasy. “Oh. Okay. Well, I am going to go see him there. Want me to take anything for him?”
Swinging back and forth on the hammock, looking at the blue sky. “Yes, there is some food on the table ready. Take it to him, please.”
As I grab the lunch, I head to the fields, and when I get there I cannot see him, so I go to the owner and ask if he knows where my dad is, and he says, “I thought he went home after finishing up.”
Spinning the lunch. “No, he was not there.”
The owner, lifting his hat to fan himself. “Maybe you should check a bar he always goes to before you get here. It’s behind a store that is a mile down.”
“Okay. Thank you very much.”
Getting to the store, I notice the bar that I had never seen before. As I head in to look for him, I scan the room and nope, he isn’t there either, so I begin to head home. He most likely is already on route over there.
As I get to the small stream that connects the rivers, I see that there is a crowd of people, so I continue because I am curious as to what they are seeing. There are paramedics and soldiers around, as well. As I get closer, I notice that there is a body lying there with a machete 3 feet away from the body and a bottle of liquor clutched in his hands. As I get closer, I notice a scar on the man’s face. My stomach and body go numb. I’m almost lightheaded, and I run to the body to finally see that my father is dead, his body and white buttoned shirt torn and tattered, almost appearing as if he had been chewed and spit out.
I cry and hug his body so tight my shoulder and arms begin to burn, hoping this is just a joke, that this cannot be real. My tears now create a stain in his white, dusty shirt with bloodstains all around it.
I overhear the medics say, “This was on purpose. A group of people killed him while he was drunk.”
I cannot stop crying. My body goes numb on top of his, and I continue to cry, grabbing his hand, hoping he will grab mine and wake up to say, “I was just jumped and knocked out. Nothing big,” but his hand is stiff and cold.
A soldier walks up to me and places a hand on my back, patting me, trying to hold back his tears, seeing the pain I am in over the father I will never get back. It has been ten minutes now, and the soldier tells me they have to take the body and go to the coroner.
As they leave, I sit to the side of the dirt road crying, asking myself, “What motherfucker could take him like this?” Grabbing the dirt in the road. “What did he do? Why didn’t he just come straight home?” I throw the dirt that was clenched in my hands at the road, and I can’t keep myself up. My arms are weak and my soul is torn from what I saw. I fall and lie on the road for just a moment, whimpering. The lunch is spilled, the beans and rice all over the road, and the dogs eating it right up.
